Of FIFA, frenetic frenzying, and fevers

It's Morldc Dup (Tibetan spelling) fever. Day 5 in London brings us England's first game in the World Cup, and for the Brits, the World Cup doesn't start until they are playing. England's team flag flies from most cars, windows, anywhere that will support a flag basically. I think FIFA should stand for Football Insanity, Football Anarchy. 100, 000 British passports of known "thugs" were seized so they wouldn't make a public embarassment of themselves in Berlin. Seriously. Nonetheless, it seems I am doomed to wedge myself into a screaming pub with the rest of England in order to watch their first game. "It's a cultural experience."

As for fevers in general, it is the only symptom I and Matt are not suffering after being beaten by the ache-y, sick stick. Bla. How dull. Sick on holidays. Matt took ill on Day 3 and me yesterday. Yesterday's other news headline was: HIGH SMOG ALERT AS SUN BAKES ENGLAND. Or it could be the Transatlantic fight after an insanely busy month. Or it could be from me draggin gour butts all across London in a tourist frenetic frenzy...

...which brings me to my next topic. I caught the tourist bug almost immediately. My own excitement at being here has driven us hard. Leiscester Square, Covent Gardens, Trafalgar Square, National Portrait Gallery, Picadilly Circus, St. James' Park, Buckngham Palace, Westminster Cathedral, Westminster Abbey, House of Parliament, Big Ben, misc bridges, London Eye, Tate Modern, St. Paul's, and all on foot or Tube, the hottest and rickitiest thing on rails. And all in 3 days. I am like a kid in a candy store, gorging myself on beauty. What can a girl do? Every corner, every building, every square is overwhelming in its gorgeousness. Sculpture everywhere. Antiquity eveywhere. On each street, you feel you want to turn the next corner just to see what is around it.

It's a sickness. Before we left, a friend reminded of us of the quote, "beauty heals." It is so true. But can one have too much of a good thing? Maybe not, but a gluttuny can make you sick. Hence, my running nose and pounding head. Ah, the price one pays for beauty. "Beauty and pain are constant bedfellows."

So, what can I say for all we've seen? Westminster Cathedral, and not the Abbey, was my favorite. It is less famous, but more beautiful in my opinion. Its exterior wrapped in striped white and sienna brick almost like Islamic design. The interior a Byzantian style feast of mosaics. Truly stunning and moving. In a backdrop of high, rounded, blackened brick ceilings--a quiet, simple companion to such awesome glimmering tiles. My favorite mosaic is in Day 2's pictures below. I felt the presence of God there, which seems to me the purpose of a church. His beauty, His perfection. High above all created things yet powerfully in our midst. The temptation, however, in a place so majestic is to try to stir up a religious feeling to match the building. Thereby, crafting a false and proudful thing which leads one back to oneself in a self-centered way. Really not the point.

This in contrast to Westminster Abbey, which is indeed beautiful as well, but more grand, less introspective. And owing to its being a tomb to "great" people, I felt not lead to God, but into the contemplation of the futility of human beings puffing themselves up for all to see. (which I suppose could lead you to God after all....) I toured the tombs for my Dad mostly. So I could tell him I had seen Queen Victoria and Queen Elizabeth's tombs, etc. I felt more interested to let my mind run on the idea of walking over the ashes of people like Newton, Faraday, Joule, Darwin, the Bronte sisters, WH Auden, TS Elliot, George Elliot, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, her husband, and so on. Quite cool in a way. Morbid, but I can like that too sometimes. Asked a older quide lady why in a place symbolic of life they entombed all these corpses here, and she said, "Oh, well, there's lots of people buried outside, dear." Hmmm.

As for other London steroetypes, I've rather amusedly seen them all. Older bird like Grandmas and Grandpas with this noses on thin bodies lookin out over low perched spectacles. Short haired, edgey, smoking, almost a lesbian types. Mohawks of all kinds, and the traditional, neon, stiff glued one still makes a showing. Fashionistas. Gorgeous ethnic women. Lonely Bridget Jones' on the Tube, albeit with cute shoes. Everyone has cute shoes no matter what. And in full force, the urban metrosexual (a heterosexual with gay tastes, for those out of the loop). Though our friend Tom insists that they really are just homosexuals. Whatever, they may be, it's all quite fun. And all quite a circus. Picadilly nothing. They should call this whole town London Circus.